Lately I have been feeling compelled to document my childhood summertime memories. This desire mystifies me because grown up Shawna is not a fan of summer. I am a cozy sweater, roaring fire, snowy night kind of girl. Perhaps it's watching my own sweaty and giggling munchkins soak up the sunshine. Perhaps it's that I miss my family and as a result have been dwelling in happy memories. Whatever the reason, I have decided to yield to it and give voice to long ago summer days.
My sister and I had what I consider to be the ideal setting to grow up in. It was a small town, and we explored every corner of it. We lived on the same street for most of our growing up years. The neighborhood was light on traffic and heavy on front porch visits. We were safe and free to roam.
Summer was innocence and warmth and bare feet. We gave ourselves up to it with complete abandon. We performed acrobatic feats on monkey bars that were a little too high and a little too rusty. We did cartwheels and somersaults in short shorts and tank tops, not yet knowing we were supposed to feel self-conscious about our bodies. Freshly laundered clothes hung from the clothesline and waved to us in the hot breezes. We feasted on onion grass and ice pops and sun tea. We adorned ourselves with crowns of wild flowers. Our hands and feet were streaked with earth and we had not a single care in the world.
We learned lessons that I hope to teach my summer sweeties: Neighbors should be know. Getting dirty can be healing. Play can be a balm to a hurting heart. A cold glass of iced tea and a front porch are an invitation for good conversation. The purpose of each day is simply to enjoy it!
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